


A Gun is a Gun

by fightingthecage



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Allusions to domestic violence, Gen, Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene's always been a fan of guns - depending on who's holding them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gun is a Gun

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old one, and quite a throwaway thing. Written for a prompt - see the title.

Funny things, guns. Best thing in the world if you’re a real bloke. Worst thing in the world if you happen to be at the wrong end of one. If you find yourself _there_ , then it doesn’t matter how cool they are, how good a shot you are, how many bullets you’ve fired. There’s only one that counts.  
  
The first time he saw a gun, he was wide-eyed with wonder. His fingers itched with want. His dad rarely got the old Luger out where they could see it – he did have some limits, it seemed – but he was different today. Not because he was drunk. He was usually drunk. But because he wasn’t shouting, wasn’t hitting any of them. He was sitting there at the kitchen table, with rags and oil, and a fag hanging from his lips. And when Gene went to look, he didn’t push him away.  
  
‘See that, Geno?’  
  
He had nodded, and resisted the urge to mention that no one called him Geno except Stu.  
  
‘Killed four Hun for that.’  
  
Albert was swaying in his seat. Gene noticed the brightness of his eyes, but any nine-year-old deductions he might have made were overpowered by desire to touch this thing. He reached for it. Albert slapped his hand away.  
  
‘D’you wish you were there now?’ he asked, curling his fingers over the edge of the table instead. Albert smiled, actually _smiled_ , and shook his head.  
  
‘You think I’m stupid? Seen one trench, seen ‘em all, son.’  
  
Stu reckons there aren’t trenches this time. He’s been reading about it. Tanks, and aeroplanes, which is why they keep getting dragged off to the air-raid shelters in the middle of the night. It’s OK, though. Finding shrapnel equals pocket money, unless Albert nicks it off them first.  
  
‘Did they let you keep it, then? When you come out of the army?’  
  
Albert had stared at him. ‘Thought you were s’posed to be the smart one? Twat.’ His fingers were gentle on the barrel, softer than Gene had ever seen them. ‘No one knew. Nicked it, didn’t I?’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘Why not?’  
  
Even at nine, Gene thought there was probably a difference between nicking ha’penny sweets from the corner shop, and pinching a gun off a German. But he knew better than to say so.  
  
‘Can I hold it?’  
  
Albert stopped oiling it, and eyed him as he stubbed his fag out. ‘Like the look of it?’  
  
He had nodded. And then realised, a second too late, that he shouldn’t have. Should have known better. Because Albert’s drunk, and when Albert’s drunk, you _stay away_.  
  
‘I bet you do. Bet you’d love to get your paws on it.’  
  
He’d moved back without daring to turn and look for the door. But his father was rising, swaying worse as he stood, six-foot-two of muscle and fat, with a gun in his hand.  
  
‘Sorry. Sorry! I don’t wanna t-‘  
  
‘Yeah, you do. I know you do. You and him, talkin’ about-‘  
  
He would’ve tried to remember when he and Stu last talked about trying to do something about their dad, but the arm was rising and he found himself staring straight down the muzzle. And then up, further, to Albert’s face.  
  
He’d expected cold and cruel. He was used to that. But what he saw was…different. Sad. Resigned, almost, like he was doing this because it was expected, or because he just didn’t know how else to be.  
  
‘…dad, I don’t wanna hold it.’  
  
It had been a long moment, though these days, if he thinks about it at all, he imagines it wasn’t as long as it felt. Moments like that have a habit of drawing out in the memory, he knows. There’s been a few of them over the years.  
  
Albert had sniffed. When he lowered the barrel, Gene saw that his hand was shaking. The whole thing had come from nowhere, but he felt no surprise. No hate. No more fear than usual. It was just his dad being his dad.  
  
‘I’ll take the bullet out, an’ you can have a feel.’  
  
It never occurred to him to wonder why there was a bullet in it in the first place. Not until it was too late, and there was no need.  
  
So yeah, funny things. He hadn’t touched one again until he joined the Army. They were everything he thought they’d be from that first taste at age nine. Heavy, for one. Coolest thing in the world, for two. There was nothing said, ‘I’m a man’ like putting a rifle on your shoulder and blasting the hell out of some target. It was the same in the Force, when he got far enough to be allowed to use one. There was a rumour once that CID boys weren’t supposed to have the access he allowed them, but stuff that. His kingdom, his rules, and not a chance in hell he’ll send his lads out there without proper ways of defending themselves.  
  
Of course, there were incidents. It’s one thing when an over-the-counter goes tits up, and the twat with a sawn-off accidentally shoots someone’s face off. Or their own foot – that happened once. They’d all had a good laugh about it. But it’s another when...well, sometimes things go wrong, don’t they? A siege situation that drags on for hours, a kid running at the crowd with something in his hand, and people are screaming and the lads are yelling, and  _not enough time_ to make the right decision. Sometimes the gun makes the decision for you. A scumbag’s got one, running at civilians – you shoot first, ask questions later. End of.  
  
If it turns out to be a kid holding a stick...well, you just have to get through it. Never mind the looks you get in the street, or the fact your mam can’t show her face at church socials for six months. Never mind the nights awake, and the whiskey, and feeling that mother’s glare and the sting of her palm hitting your cheek. Never mind all that. A gun is a gun, isn’t it? Even if it turns out not to be. You do what you have to do, in the time you have available. What you think about it after doesn’t matter.  
  
And then...now. This.  
  
Annie’s screaming. Ray’s down a few feet in front, and not moving. Chris is crying, and wanting to go home, so at least he’s not dead. Sam’s...gone.  
  
The night after that afternoon with his dad, he’d wondered what it’d feel like if Albert had pulled the trigger. Would he have felt anything before he died? Now, he’s thinking _yes_. Because the hole in the back of his leg hurts like a bastard, though it might be the stone of the railway track digging into the wound. He can’t roll over. Leslie Johns is six feet away, five…four…and he’s buggered if he’s going to die with his back to the bastard. He’s looked down the barrel of a gun before, he can do it again.  
  
The hammer goes back, and he tries to think _come on, then_. But what comes out is a quiet, ‘oh,  _no_ …’ because this is not how Gene Hunt was supposed to die. Not having failed. Not with the knowledge that his team will be a few seconds behind, and this was all his idea, and now it’ll be his fault and he should have just  _stayed away_  and…  
  
...when the shot comes, it’s Sam.  
  
A gun is a gun, at the end of the day. What really matters is which end of the barrel you’re on – and whose finger is on the trigger. For once, Gene’s bloody glad it’s Tyler’s.


End file.
